


Jaffa

by TrollingfromtheBarricade (ShitpostingfromtheBarricade)



Category: 19th Century CE France RPF, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Halloween, M/M, Marius PoV, Napoleon Bona-Party Pooper, Unhealthy Relationships, but the problem of the day is somewhat resolved, courfeyrac is a good friend, don't date Napoleon Bonaparte, fuck the monarchy, no really don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/TrollingfromtheBarricade
Summary: “Ah.  They’re splendid, to be sure, but...what’s the occasion?”  His birthday is August, his coronation had been in December…could it be that Marius has forgotten some important date?“It’s Halloween, my dear subject!  Tonight, I will join you and your misguided republican peers.”Warnings:narcissistic personality/interactions, passing reference to alcohol





	Jaffa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/gifts).

> For AnnaBolena, literally the only person who wanted this at all.
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful beta-reader [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait). <3

“What in my name are you wearing?”

Marius flushes slightly, tugging insistently at his vest. The idea had seemed like a good one when Courfeyrac suggested it, but now that Napoléon is staring him down with a look of absolute appall he isn’t so sure.

Nevertheless, he clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure. “It’s a—I'm you.”

Napoléon’s eyes narrow. _“What?”_

“You can't tell?” He tries not to let his hurt feelings show. “What if I—” His hand tucks into the unbuttoned portion of the vest as he strikes the pose he had spent all morning practicing in the mirror.

“What on earth are you doing?”

His heart plummets into his stomach. Maybe this had been a mistake after all. “Nevermind.”

Marius doesn’t have a backup costume, so he’s stuck staring at the ground until Napoléon clears his throat. “Are you going to ask about my garb?”

His eyes flit back to the emperor, trailing up the elaborate brocade that the man has decided to dress himself in today. “Oh, yes, it’s. Magnificent. It is lovely.”

Napoléon’s scepter jabs imperiously into the hardwood of their floors, light catching brilliantly on the emperor’s golden laurels. “They are my coronation robes.”

“Ah. They are splendid, to be sure, but...what is the occasion?” His birthday had been August, his coronation December…could it be that Marius has forgotten some important date?

“It is Halloween, my dear subject! Tonight, I will join you and your republican peers.”

“Oh, well you probably shouldn’t call them—”

“Misguided and naive though they may be, surely in the presence of their emperor they will see the light.”

Marius isn’t quite so certain, but he is hardly in a position to argue with his liege. “Will that be all right? With you?” They’ve scarcely lived together six months, and Marius is still unfamiliar with the particulars of Napoléon’s permanence; the man seems to remain in the building most hours of the day that Marius is present, and he has been informed before that whatever is due for their rent is covered entirely by the ‘allegiance of their Buonopartist landlady,’ whatever that may mean.

“Of course it is, my pet, you need not worry yourself over such trivial matters. Come, let us be off! I have loyal supporters to dote on.”

The instant before Napoléon steps out of the building feels suspended in time, but once he crosses the threshold the moment has passed, and he is striding confidently down the street, purple robes and ermine layers flowing regally behind him. It takes less than a minute for Marius to catch up with the emperor and gently persuade him to stop by the apartment again, thereby getting them headed in the correct direction, before the sting of Napoléon’s words finally starts to settle in.

_Is my devotion not enough?_ Napoléon deserves the love and respect of all, it’s true, but also…Marius had been beginning to believe that perhaps he was enough for the emperor. The error aches in his chest, shame coursing through his veins as they continue on their way.

Upon arrival, Marius reaches forth to ring the buzzer and avoid having the emperor dirty his hands with such a lowly task. The door swings open to reveal Courfeyrac dressed plainly in jeans and an oversized green sweatshirt, absolutely in his element as the house booms behind him.

“Marius! You made it!” His friend pulls him into an enthusiastic hug. “And—” Here Courfeyrac’s expression falters. “—you brought Bonaparte! Wow! I, erm. Forgive me, I don’t really know what the protocol is here?”

“No need to kiss my ring,” Napoléon dismisses. “A simple kneel will suffice.”

Courfeyrac’s smile goes rigid before widening saccharinely. “France recognizes no king. Or emperor.” He turns to face Marius. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze.”

Marius allows himself to be pulled in by the wrist; he’s vaguely aware that Napoléon follows not too far behind, bestowing imperious glances on the surrounding party-goers who, for the most part, don’t seem to pay him much mind.

“The costume looks amazing, Pontmercy, I can’t believe you managed to pull it off on that shoestring budget of yours,” Courfeyrac tells him as they pass through yet another room.

“Thanks.” After Napoléon’s lukewarm reception, it does make him feel a little better, but he knows he needs to address the real issue at hand. “Is this okay? With...him? Here?”

At last they come to a stop, facing one another in the middle of the central-most room of the house. It takes a moment for Marius to realize that this inner sanctum is where most of their mutual friends have congregated.

“Look,” Courfeyrac says in a hushed tone, “I’m cool with it, and I think most of us will be, but he needs to calm down a little. And I know you like him and all, but if he starts jerking you around I’m telling you now that I’ll sock him, corporeal form or not.”

As long as Marius has been in acquaintance with the emperor he has always assumed a corporeal form, but the sentiment makes him smile nevertheless. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Bud.” His friend clasps a hand over his shoulder. “Now, let’s find Ferre: I have a bet going with Baz and what my mother likes to call ‘no patience or sense of self-preservation to speak of.’ Paraphrasing, of course.”

“Of course,” Marius grins. “What does your father call it?”

“‘Gross stupidity.’” 

They close in on Combeferre more quickly than Marius had anticipated or desired. He quickly realizes that what he had initially taken as a lack of costume on Courfeyrac’s part is actually a coordinated effort between Enjolras, Combeferre, and him to be Alvin, Simon, and Theodore respectively. Beside the makeshift costumes Marius feels embarrassingly overdressed. 

“Hey, Ferre, check out Pontmercy’s costume!”

Marius swallows hard as Combeferre’s eyes slide over him. “Impressive accuracy and attention to detail. I assume Courfeyrac goaded you into this?”

Will Marius snitch on his friend?

Not a chance. “No.”

Whatever his intent, Combeferre doesn’t seem to buy it. “Right. Well, I’ll be seeing you at the next meeting. Tell your companion to tread lightly.”

His companion? Surely Combeferre doesn’t mean—

Sniffing, Napoléon pushes past Marius to address Combeferre directly. “Excuse me, who are you referring to as a ‘companion’?”

Incredibly, even in the face of such profound greatness, Combeferre continues his conversation with Enjolras around the emperor almost entirely uninterrupted.

“I will have you know,” Napoléon continues, “that I am _your emperor,_ King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation, and co-Prince of Andorra. You are not allowed to simply _ignore_ the direct question of your Imperial Majesty!”

Combeferre proceeds not only to ignore aforementioned question but, with a quick tilt of his head, walk away from the blustery emperor entirely, escorting his and Enjolras’s conversation to completely different room.

While Napoléon sputters ineffectively at the now-empty space, Courfeyrac resumes his grip on Marius’s wrist. “C’mon, we’re visiting Bahorel. A debt must be paid.”

“Who won?” Marius asks, attention flitting between the man in front of him and the emperor falling further and further behind. Has he even noticed Marius’s absence yet?

“Bahorel!” Courfeyrac shouts, a greeting rather than an answer.

“Courf! And the good emperor, holy shit Ponpon!” Bahorel’s costume could better be described as a state of undress, the late Khal more recognizable by his numerous tattoos, heavy eye makeup, and styled beard than his trousers or the stack of belts that cover his entire stomach. “Has Ferre seen yet?”

“He has,” admits Marius.

“And?”

“Immediately accused me of having arranged it.” A twenty is extended to Bahorel, snatched summarily just as Grantaire catapults between them.

“Pontmercy!” the man cries, righting himself. Braids swing wildly over his face, heavy with beads and trinkets. If nothing else, Grantaire has the affectations of Jack Sparrow down perfectly. “Jacques-Louis David, very nice, I approve.” 

“And you must be Pontmercy’s famous roommate,” Bahorel announces, extending a large meaty hand past Marius. “Love the ‘repurposed duvet’ look.” Marius isn’t familiar enough with Game of Thrones to know which tattoos belong to the character and which are Bahorel’s own, but he doesn’t imagine that the knowledge would do much to ingratiate the Dothraki to Napoléon.

Perhaps predictably, the emperor turns his nose up at the gesture. “I do not touch my subjects.”

And that’s a lie, because almost immediately when Marius returns home every day Napoléon calls him over to their sofa for the express purpose of having Marius sit at his feet leaned up against his strong, sportsmanly legs. Marius often brings work or a book, but so long as that physical contact is maintained the emperor has never seemed to mind.

It comes as less of a surprise than it should that Grantaire has his own take on the declaration. “Ah! A clear admission that the commission of le Gros to portray a scene from the Egyptian campaign was indeed nothing but propaganda, a posture, a scene from a much broader production in which we all play an unwitting role—” The man, shockingly, cuts himself off upon getting an eyeful of Napoléon himself. “Dude, I’ve gotta tell you, I almost put the exact same thing on this morning. _Gods_ would that have been awkward.” A dark-colored bottle is brought to his mouth in a dramatic swig before the man stumbles off, no doubt to terrorize another unsuspecting band of friends.

“Have you been keeping an eye on how much he’s had?” Courfeyrac asks, voice laiden with concern.

“That bottle is nothing but Dr Pibb, checked it myself. Multiple times.” Grinning, Bahorel shakes his head. 

“Huh,” utters Marius.

“Good for him.” Courfeyrac’s eyes follow the captain until he leaves the room. “Might wanna keep an eye on him all the same.”

“That’s the plan,” the khal responds before turning to seek his ward.

Casting a glance around the room, Marius leans in nearer to his friend. “Who else is here tonight?”

“Feuilly couldn’t make it, and JBM had a family reunion to disrupt—their words, not mine. Jehan’s around here somewhere, though, and Cosette and Ép—ooh, we should get a picture of you guys together! They did a group costume with R, but he hasn’t been still enough all night for me to take one. You guys are basically the same time period!”

“Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“Yeah! Cosette’s Elizabeth, and it looks—”

He hates to nitpick, but with Napoléon right there… “Isn’t that more Golden Age of Pirates? Closer to the 18th century, right?”

“Eh,” Courfeyrac shrugs, “Bonaparte was turn-of-the-century, basically the same—”

_“Absolutely not.”_ The rebuke leaves Marius flinching, but before the emperor can continue arms are being thrown over Marius’s shoulders.

“Marius!” exclaims Jehan. “Your costume looks incredible! Not that I didn’t believe Bahorel, but words really don’t do the accuracy justice.”

The emperor sputters. “I never even did a sitting in that regalia!”

“Goodness, Napoléon, I didn’t see you!” Ey squints at him. “I love your poncho, where ever did you get it?”

A frustrated yell sounds, cut off abruptly by the crack of the emperor’s scepter against the tile of the floor. Marius is left to watch helplessly as the he storms off. “His Imperia—Napoléon!” he calls uselessly, the words lost immediately to the pounding music and din of people.

For eir part, Jehan looks truly apologetic. His best friend, on the other hand, appears decidedly less so.

“Good fucking riddance. Now you can actually enjoy the party without that sulky self-titled ‘emperor’ following you around all night.”

“You did that on purpose,” Marius accuses.

“I didn’t.” Courfeyrac’s hands move to his hips. “Your roommate doesn’t know how to be around people who aren’t prepared to wait on him hand and foot, and even if you’re happy to, he needs to appreciate your boundaries. We’re your _friends,_ Marius, and if he isn’t willing to respect us, then he’s not respecting you or your choices.”

Courfeyrac’s words turn over in his head as Jehan grabs hold of his hands, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “I wasn’t trying to make him angry, promise, but it also makes me feel concerned whenever I see you two like this,” ey confides.

Mouth tightening, he nods. “I know. Thank you.”

_“But,”_ Courfeyrac says, “the party doesn’t have to stop just because Bona-Party Pooper can’t handle not being the center of attention. C’mon, Ponty, we’re just getting started!”

He glances reluctantly between Courfeyrac and plague doctor-Jehan’s expectant expressions before giving in. 

Napoléon probably has tons of other loyal Bonapartists to fall back on.

“Oh, thank goodness, I’m glad you made it home all right,” Marius sighs as he hangs up his house keys. Napoléon has changed from his elaborate ceremonial brocade into something that more closely resembles an ermine bathrobe. If the emperor isn’t mentioning it, Marius isn’t either. “I couldn’t find you at the party, and I didn’t have any way to contact you.”

The man remains curled up in His Chair, arms crossed and not looking at Marius.

Another day, another time, Marius might have thrown himself at the emperor’s feet and begged to be told about his Imperial Majesty’s woes, pleaded for any way that he could make it right. Tonight, however, he has had a good time despite, rather than by the grace of, his moody roommate, and Marius isn’t about to grovel and apologize for it.

“Jacques-Louis David did a fine job in rendering my image,” the emperor volunteers suddenly. “You did his portraiture justice.”

A compliment? From his Imperial Majesty? “Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“I did not recognize the others. The plague doctor, of course, but…”

Marius shrugs, heading for the kitchen a retrieving a glass. “I don’t imagine you would, they’re mostly pop culture references.” The rare evening that Marius is in, the emperor is usually only interested in recitations of old French classics and watching documentaries about himself.

“I see.” 

Marius fills and drains his glass three times before rinsing it and setting it aside to dry, every sound echoing distinctly through the flat.

“I have decided that I would like to understand these ‘pop culture references.’ Starting with your pirate friends.”

Pausing from his path to the bedroom, Marius blinks at his liege. “You…you want to watch Pirates of the Caribbean?”

The emperor sits upright, pulling his feet out from under him and resting them on the floor. (Definitely a bathrobe.) “It is obviously something popular among the masses and an allusion familiar to you and your acquaintances. I think it is only right that I do, to better understand my new subjects.”

“Okay then.” Marius’s fingers fiddle with the edge of his jacket as he attempts to tamp down a smile. “I’ll set them out for you to watch tomorrow before I head out.”

Starting for his bedroom again, the sound of Napoléon clearing his throat gives him pause. “It may be more beneficial to my understanding were you to accompany me in watching them. After all, the filmmakers almost certainly included untold numbers of historical inaccuracies that will require explanation.”

Marius dips his head cautiously. “Of course. When would you like to begin, Sire?”

The title seems to return an air of certainty to the emperor’s features. “As it seems I have much catching-up to do, the present would be most suitable. If your errands tomorrow are not too pressing.”

“I—they—” Is this an apology? “Tonight is great.”

“Excellent.”

Once Marius has the movie set up, he goes to take his usual place at his emperor’s feet but is stopped.

“There is more than enough space on the lounge. Please, sit.”

Averting his eyes, Marius bites his lip and takes a seat beside Napoléon. The sound of crashing waves begins, and it occurs to him that they are _actually watching a movie together._

“You are too tall. Either slouch or rest your head in my lap.”

Even slouching Marius is nearly at a height with his Imperial Majesty, so he adjusts himself accordingly.

“Just so.” The first characters make their appearance onscreen, and Marius’s chest grows warm as Napoléon’s fingers find their way into his hair. “Now, when does your friend with the braids appear?”

**Author's Note:**

> Napoléon likes Grantaire because 1) Grantaire knew about him, and 2) Grantaire's slight in regard to his robes went over his head.
> 
> **Mandatory point of clarification:** you are not a bad guest for following your friend around a party where you don't know anyone. You are a bad guest if you refuse to try to interact with their friends except to be an arrogant ass and try to force them to swear fealty to you. (Also Napoléon is a dick, don't keep people in your life who treat you how Napoléon treats people.)
> 
> Jacques-Louis David painted [the portrait we most often refer to when we discuss Napoléon](https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/1/napoleon-bonaparte-in-his-study-at-the-tuileries-1812-jacques-louis-david.jpg), which is incidentally the version Marius is dressed as. Ironically, it is widely believed that Napoléon never actually did a sitting for that particular portrait. Napoléon himself is wearing his [coronation robes](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/8f/Fran%C3%A7ois_G%C3%A9rard_-_Napoleon_I_001.JPG). I absolutely think he'd be annoyed that David's painting is so popular, given how many [how many](https://www.laphamsquarterly.org/sites/default/files/styles/tall_rectangle_custom_user_small_2x/public/images/contributor/bonaparte_360x450.jpg?itok=a0TZeLvp&timestamp=1427308594) [Goddamned](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/40/ba/2d/40ba2de642b4267d6dd65a0f5a224396.jpg) [pieces](http://images5.fanpop.com/image/photos/28000000/Emperor-Napoleon-napoleon-bonaparte-i-28012729-450-628.jpg) there are of him in his [fucking](https://6469da.medialib.edu.glogster.com/gQRySB5kEncioaWOcE10/media/1f/1f0c82386850ff1a4cc86934610daa6fb4e15293/emperor-napoleon-bonaparte.jpg) [ceremonial robes](https://c8.alamy.com/comp/G3845K/napoleon-bonaparte-i-napoleon-as-emperor-in-1805-date-1769-1821-G3845K.jpg) (and no, this is not even a remotely exhaustive list of this genre of painting).
> 
> Also, Grantaire's ramble is true: Napoléon did commission Antoine-Jean Gros (yes, _that_ le Gros) to do a [painting](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/19/Antoine-Jean_Gros_-_Bonaparte_visitant_les_pestif%C3%A9r%C3%A9s_de_Jaffa.jpg/800px-Antoine-Jean_Gros_-_Bonaparte_visitant_les_pestif%C3%A9r%C3%A9s_de_Jaffa.jpg) of him visiting (and touching) sick plague victims as [pro-Bonaparte propaganda](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bonaparte_Visiting_the_Plague_Victims_of_Jaffa).
> 
> **The Amis's Costumes**  
Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac - Alvin and the Chipmunks  
Bahorel: Khal Drogo  
Grantaire: Jack Sparrow  
Cosette: Elizabeth Swann  
Éponine: Will Turner genderbend  
Jehan: plague doctor  
JBM: Doctors 10, 9, and 13 respectively (no shade to Matt Smith, none of them have the hair for it)  
Feuilly: rebel alliance pilot
> 
> I am honestly dying to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com). Please.


End file.
